


Even Keel

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 17:11:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6160669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It’s okay to be disappointed with the outcome."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even Keel

Aomine’s nodding off in cram school when his phone buzzes against his leg, a welcome distraction from whatever the hell the math teacher is pontificating about (at the beginning of the lesson it had been points and slopes and lines and the geometry of planes that are too infinite and perfect to actually exist but it’s been half an hour since Aomine had even made an attempt at looking like he was copying things down). He slides the phone out of his pocket and opens it up, keeping the screen hidden behind the shoulders of the person in front of him.

_Cancer and Virgo are at their most compatible today._

Aomine grins. Midorima’s got an odd way of asking him on dates, but he’s gotten used to it (and it’s one of Midorima’s quirks that became pretty cute once he’d actually figured out what it meant).

 _Come pick me up?_ He texts back.

 _Pay attention in class_ , is the reply.

He nearly snorts, but then remembers where he is—he doesn’t have to pay attention, but he can’t be blatantly disruptive about it. As it is, the teacher shoots a nasty glare at him when he looks up, and he picks up his pencil again. When she looks away, he reaches for his phone again.

_Only because you asked so nicely._

And then he makes good on his word. He has to get into college somehow, and the only way is to get a reasonable number of these shitty math problems right. He glances up at the board and feigns interest in the law of cosines as he copies it down; maybe paying attention will make the date come sooner.

It doesn’t. Time moves like a jellyfish in still water; the second hand on the clock seems to stick and drag; the teacher’s voice slows down; Aomine considers how he could make this end early and still absorb the material. Does sticking an open book under your pillow really work? The math problems seem to have a nasty trick of multiplying themselves, in quantity and complexity, and he’s washing away in a rip current of triangles and circles and secant lines. He barely avoids drowning; somehow the clock manages to move itself far enough forward and class is dismissed. Aomine stuffs his books into his bag and heads out, waving to Ryou and Satsuki before slipping through the crowd. Other students are dawdling, discussing the problems and their social lives or walking slowly, and Aomine doesn’t have time for that shit right now. He pushes through the stairwell and down, out; finally, he’s outside in the fresh air of the evening. It’s cold, but not the kind of marrow-sucking deep winter chill that Tokyo shouldn’t get but does anyway; it takes a few seconds for the air to scrape his cheeks, and by that time he’s located Midorima.

His face is lit up by the glow of his cell phone; he’s tapping on it (probably a message) but he’s glancing up intermittently. He catches Aomine’s eye and stuffs the phone in his pocket.

“Aomine.”

“Midorima…”

Aomine latches onto Midorima’s shoulders, pressing his face to Midorima’s back, just below his neck. Cram school is boring and tiring and there’s too much of it left; even though he’s not prepared he’d rather just take the stupid exam tomorrow and get it over with.

“You’d be having a better time if you paid attention.”

“You’re supposed to be sympathetic,” says Aomine.

“I am sympathetic,” says Midorima. “I don’t want you to fail.”

“You’re supposed to tell me I’m doing a good job by sticking it out and stuff,” says Aomine, pulling down harder on Midorima’s shoulders.

“Stop hanging. And stop whining.”

Aomine complies, shifting his arms down around Midorima’s waist and leaning forward. The irate click in the back of Midorima’s throat like the switch on a lamp means he’s doing it exactly right.

“You’re heavy.”

“Are you calling me fat?”

Midorima knows enough by now not to reply to that, instead wriggling out of Aomine’s grip and crossing his arms. His lips are twisting like fibers in a cable, not into that cute pout he does or his resistance of a smile but into something else—and then he speaks before Aomine can identify what exactly it is.

“We should get dinner before it’s too late.”

* * *

Dinner is quieter than usual. Neither of them is extremely talkative and they usually enjoy silences; they’re not an indication of a lack of anything to say or communicate but a way of being with each other. This is different. Midorima seems on edge, his fingers twitching and tapping at the edge of the table and his eyes unsettled, glancing from his plate to his glass to Aomine to the window, without any sort of comprehensible pattern. He shifts forward in his seat, leaning on his elbow, peering at Midorima. Midorima doesn’t notice, lost in his own thoughts, whatever they might be. Aomine frowns. Did he inadvertently do something? He’s pretty sure that’s not it, because Midorima usually tells him when he does. Was it something he’d said, something they’d talked about outside the cram school, something that had made Midorima’s expression change and gotten him this unsettled? He squints, prying at the thoughts in his own mind, trying to recollect enough, feeling an idea slip from his mind like a fish in the creek though his fingers and then. Then he has it.

“You’re nervous. About the exams.”

Midorima’s fingers curl; his chopsticks smack together and cut the piece of chestnut they’ve been holding in two.

“I’m not…nervous, I’m just.” He pauses, and doesn’t continue.

Telling him not to be won’t do anything; it’s the same kind of shitty, frustrating advice that isn’t advice at all, just a temporary attempt at assuagement to lighten the tension in the air.

“You’re doing everything humanly possible, right?”

“I’m trying,” says Midorima.

“Well, then,” says Aomine. “If you try your best, then you just…I don’t know, have to leave it to fate. You’re the one who says God disposes, right?”

Midorima nods.

“And you’re you. So you’re going to do all you can do. It’s going to work out the way it does. And it’s okay to be disappointed with the outcome, and figure out a way to change it if that’s what you want.”

It had made more sense in his head. This isn’t something he usually thinks about, works out from detail to detail, the way he does other things. Trying and failing has never been something that’s hit him too hard or that he’s worried about all that much. Midorima does, but Midorima usually deals with it by doubling down on preparation and assuring himself he’ll succeed enough to get it under control himself. Should he talk more? Should he try and rephrase what he’d said? He looks at Midorima, and Midorima’s face is relaxed into an almost-smile.

“Thank you. That was…helpful.”

Midorima pauses; he’s not sure what to say either. And he doesn’t say anything, but what he’s said is more than enough.

Aomine smiles back. “No problem.”

Under the table, he places his hand on Midorima’s knee. A few seconds later, Midorima covers it with his own palm, cool and dry like desert sand at night.


End file.
